Chimera
by Lastie
Summary: Based on Gone Girl. Amy Elliott Dunne is America's Darling. Rape survivor, loving wife and mother; the toast of the nation. To two people she's a sociopath who lied and murdered her way back into their lives. Nick and Margo Dunne have their own secrets, however, and to every action there is a consequence. We make our own monsters.
1. Heads of the Beast

_...I feel sorry for you._

 _Fucking piece of shit._

 _You just want an excuse to stay. You two, you're fucking addicted to each other._

 _I can't imagine my story without her..._

 _I was told love should be unconditional..._

 _Now at last I'm the hero. I'm the one to root for..._

 _Remember when I said... I said I'd still I love you if?_

 _Remember, she's pretending to be someone better too._

 _I really, truly wish you hadn't said that..._

 _..even if..._

 **PART I**

 **THE FEEL OF HER THORNS**

 _..I just wanted to make sure I had the last word. I think I've earned that._


	2. Amy

**AMY**

I am content.

Not happy. Not blissful, joyful, or full of anything along those lines, for that matter. Definitely not ecstatic, as the newspapers, online blogs, and the occasional news piece insist on describing my current temperament (as if they would know). Just _content_. Why would I not be? I have a wonderful home, a loving husband, and a beautiful son. I am the celebrity of our little community ('Why yes Amazing Amy _does_ live here! Come see her house! You might even get to meet her!'), a pillar of support for a small army of awe-struck housewives, and a national heroine – the brave, loyal wife who was abducted, subjected to brutal, repeated rape, then fought (and killed. Thankfully that part is often glossed over in the articles. Oh yes, it was in self-defence and he _was_ a rapist _but we don't like to mention that part_ ) for her freedom through daring, courage, and her own will to survive.

You've probably read all about that already, I'm sure. I would imagine that rock must have been quite large if you've managed to avoid the coverage of my disappearance and subsequent escape. It was everywhere: in the papers and on the Internet (although hopefully your exposure wasn't through those cesspools of conspiracy theorists who still swear I faked it all, and claim to have the evidence to prove it. Doubtful). Or, perhaps, in my book, which did spend almost eight months on the _New York Times_ best-seller's chart: _Amazing_ , now finally out in paperback and e-book formats. Pick it up from your local supplier. Ten percent of profits go to the Elliot Foundation for Abduction and Rape Survivors. My parents' charity.

It's all a lie, of course. The book, that is: the finest work of fiction I've ever produced since my parents took me to a psychologist, age ten. Of course I didn't know that was what she was at the time – all doctors looked alike to a ten-year-old (thankfully hindsight is not restricted by juvenile comprehension of the world) – but I was smart enough, even then, to know what answers to give the woman. I chirped them out with all the innocence I could muster as a blonde little cherub. She was happy, my parents were happy (although their relief was only noticeable, as so much in life is, in hindsight, with several years of psychology courses behind me) and little Amy, aged ten, was also happy.

Or at least the closest I could come to being 'happy.'

So no, I'm not 'happy.' I'm content. Life is comfortable; I haven't spoken to the police since my interview post-Desi, and despite officer Boney's irritating habit of parking a few doors down from our (being Nick and myself) house, apparently the only spot in this fucking town where she can enjoy her morning coffee and breakfast (peering over the dashboard of her police car like a hawk carefully watching her prey), I haven't seen many of them either. They have well and truly left me alone (Boney the sole, irritating exception). Happy with my story. Happy that it had a good ending, a clean ending; an ending they can stamp their seal of approval all over, file it away, and forget about it in favour of whatever new pretty-white-girl-in-distress story comes their way.

I gave them a nice, clean, palatable ending and they ate it up like the good boys (and girls) they are.

Which is good. Because Nick has been insufferable.

At the time I thought his little comment about being 'sorry' for me was a slip. After all, I can't expect him to act his part all the time. Nick's only human (annoyingly so) after all. So I just smiled, ignored it, waited until he was gone then drank a pint of water with enough salt to make me vomit up over the couch (and by happy accident the coffee table beside, another ugly inheritance from Nick's mother). Nick, bless him, rushed me to the doctors. Of course I was fine, as ten minutes of examination proved conclusively. On the way back I commented, casually, to Nick that if he ever said anything like that again it would be something more than just fried pancakes that would be leaving my body (hint, hint!).

Nick said nothing. Just drove in silence.

In hindsight I should have realised the warning signs. I've grown too used to a quiet Nick being a disinterested Nick, a Nick thinking about ditching his nagging wife as quickly as possible for the Xbox, or The Pub (and the hours spent bitching to his sister, and I'll breach the subject of Margot- _fucking_ -Dunne in a moment), or fucking another slut like Andi (cunt). I admit: my mistake. Mea culpa. You see that Nick doesn't exist any more. Because I killed him. Metaphorically, of course. Never literally; I've never once considered killing my husband, not after all the hard work I've put into rebuilding him. All that effort. Days spent breaking him, then reforging him into something better. There were casualties; carefully laid plans thrown aside, but in the end Nick has become the man I always wanted. Pliable, compliant, and completely co-operative.

Although I fear I might have done too well.

You see Nick has been... clever, of late. First the jar of vomit that I stored in the back of the freezer (nothing to worry about, in and of itself, just insurance). Then his insistence on a DNA test for our little cherub (only just managed to intercept that in time – a near miss for our dear heroine! - and thankfully Nick pursued that matter no further once Rand was born). Then his book (that I saw him delete from his computer) 'mysteriously' turns up on some underground website undeleted. No credit of author but I recognised my husband's writing: that long-winded journalistic style, bereft of pacing, grammar and style. An author Nick will never be. His penchant for the over-dramatic is a severe block to any award, as well as the endless quotations and references to films only he cares to remember. That's not touching the vicious way he attacked me again and again in his narrative. Me, the titular 'psycho bitch.'

Fucking piece of shit.

It wasn't too long before someone noticed the similarities between that story and a certain high-profile case of a missing housewife and her cheating husband. Only, it's all backwards; the missing wife is the mastermind of her capture. The creator of an elaborate scheme, all to punish the cheating husband. Viciously, the narrative further condemns her with past performances; breaking her own ribs to frame a childhood friend (thank you Nick, I had almost forgotten Hilary). Crying rape to punish a previous boyfriend (oh, dear Tommy. How are you these days? I hear it's difficult finding work if you're a sex offender). Spending a year repeatedly calling for the firing of a truck driver whose only crime was to overtake her (that and breaking suddenly, almost causing me to plough into the back of him, but lets not recall the finer details here Nick, shall we?). All these events painting a picture of a petty, vindictive woman eager to dish out ridiculous punishments for meagre crimes.

Fucking piece of _shit_. After _everything_ I did for him. I made him a better man, and _this_ is how he repays me? By fucking going behind my back. After _promising_ me!

There's a metaphor here about particularly large cats and marks on their fur...

Thankfully people had the good sense to dismiss it as someone capitalising on another's story by writing their own version and twisting (with _extremely_ bad taste) the facts. After all, the idea that she (that being me) could weave such a complex plot to frame her cheating husband is absurd. Who would go to such lengths when a normal person would simply file for divorce?

…

Don't look at me like that. I've already voiced my stance on this. I won't repeat myself.

However, I digress. Back to the topic at hand: Nick, his silence, and my blissful ignorance.

So Nick said nothing and I said nothing else, and that was the end of that. I should have taken notice; a warning sign that the rusted, decrepit gears in the machine that is my dear husband's mind were beginning to spin. Slowly. Creaking with the weight of years of neglect. Spurred into action by proximity to my own frightening intellect.

Perhaps sensing competition. Or merely seeking to compete (hah!).

Yet spinning nonetheless.

Can you hear it? _Creak – creak – creak..._ shedding the dust and spiders. Testing joints that hadn't been oiled in decades. I would feel pride in encouraging such a neglected organ back into action if it weren't concocting such infuriating ideas.

That evening we were enjoying dinner. Just us at the table. Nick had laid everything out in the right way. Cleaned the new crockery earlier (I had him throw away that shit he inherited from his mother that he had up until then insisted on using). No television. No music. No interruptions (even Rand, the little shit, deigned to kick me for a whole hour), and Margot- _fucking-_ Dunne hadn't called all day (patience, dear reader, her time is soon). Me and Nick (Nick and I). The way it should be. We had pleasant conversation. Both of us behaving in the way a married couple should; asking questions of each other's day, listening to the replies and actually giving some constructive, caring-like-I-give-a-shit comments. The fact I don't give a shit about Nick's day at the college (how he still has the job after the débâcle with that cunt I still don't know) is beside the point – I _should_ care, so I act like I do, and Nick, bless him, reciprocates in kind.

The way it should be.

We finish our meal and I casually ask Nick what he thought of the food I'd cooked (why yes dear reader, I am refining my culinary expertise. You can thank the Amy Club. We meet every Thursday at each other's houses. You can tag along and learn essential skills for being a bored housewife!).

His response? 'Amazing.'

I didn't think anything of it. Silly mistake, Amy. You should have learned by now. Nick chooses his words carefully. A year into our reaffirmed relationship and Nick still acts like I'm hiding a box cutter beneath my pillow. But there's a look in his eyes I don't like. It's only grown worse in the two years since our son, darling Rand (Nick agreed naming him after my father would be the best way to bridge the divide formed between him and my parents since my 'abduction'), was born. Like a deer caught in the headlights, but knows that there's a second option, beside flight; to charge straight at the approaching car with his antlers down.

Except he forgets I'm not a car. I'm a twelve-wheeler.

So my dinner, apparently, was _amazing_. Afterwards other things became _amazing._ For Nick, that is. My choice of TV show. My choice of restaurant. Music station in the car. Stories of the day I had. Stories that I heard from my little army of bored housewives (the previously mentioned Amy Club). The state of mind the day I walked into Nick's study, dripping with the shit my vagina had just expelled as a warning sign Rand was _finally_ making his way out (two weeks late. Bastard.) The fucking _thirty hour labour_ (bastard little piece of shit! Keeping me trapped. Takes after his _fucking_ father!) My recovery afterwards. Everything afterwards.

Amazing. Amazing, amazing, amazing...

It clicked. Of course. Nick couldn't hurt me physically. Not with the world believing he was a wife beating, cheating bastard of a man. But he could slice away at me mentally. Cutting deep with the one thing he knew drove me crazy: Amazing _fucking_ Amy. Oh how I love, adore, despise, and wish she had never spawned from my parents' passive-aggressive need of a perfect child, with which they could prop themselves up as the pinnacle of infant sociology and parental instructions. If I could I would kill that bitch. Burn her alive in a cesspit of their plagiarizing bullshit.

But I can't; Amazing Amy's untouchable. Especially now. After my little misadventure her books have taken off like sky blue meth (you're not the only one who can make pop culture references, my dear Nick). The only thing that sold more than my book the other year was _Amazing Amy and Nasty Nick._ I'm not fucking kidding. My parent's were not subtle in how they felt about Nick after I came back. Mum still says I should divorce him. Dad's keeping quiet, which is his way of agreeing with my mother. I have to keep telling her that I've forgiven Nick. That he's turned over a new leaf. That we're starting a new chapter of our lives.

That I _won't_ fucking divorce him. He's mine. If I let him go he'll only wander off, into the clutch of some stupid bitch who doesn't deserve a man like Nick. Who wouldn't know what to do with him besides laugh at his stupid jokes, smile adoringly into his eyes, and swallow his cum on demand.

No. He's mine. I fought for him. I _murdered_ for him. I saved him from a desolation he justifiably deserved. Because I am fucking merciful. He promised me he would change and I will hold him to that promise. Or I will destroy him.

But what I can I do with him? Let us ask that infuriating question: what would Amazing Amy do? Lets see:

a) Ignore it. He's being petty. Eventually he'll realise it's not having an effect on you and he will cease this nonsense.

b) Confront him about it. Explain how hurtful his words are and appeal to the better man inside him (ha!)

c) Fight back. Bastard deserves it. Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?

Amazing Amy would, of course, choose b. Everyone else would choose a.

I chose c. Of course.

I knew there wasn't much I could say to Nick that would remind him where he stands in this relationship; the man responds more to physical stimuli (like all men), so I chose a more direct route of remonstration. Something that would target the more primal part of his brain. Cut through all the gears and spider webs. Cut straight to the heart of what made Nick, Nick.

My dear, dear Nick. Such a bundle of father issues. I wonder, on those nights where he lies next to me, perfectly awake, unaware that I'm aware, that it's the fear of becoming his father that keeps him awake. It's certainly not me, I know that now. A part of me used to think Nick was frightened of me, and in the beginning, when I first came back from Desi's covered in that little man's blood, Nick probably was afraid of me. He's not any more. I know that now. Fear has given way to hate. It's in his every action. Kissing me tenderly on the lips in public. Whenever anyone's looking. That close to him I can see it in his eyes. That monster locked away behind his fear of being exposed as that very monster. It's that fear that keeps everything in check; I don't have to do anything. Nick is the best way to police Nick, I've learnt. A fear passed down by his dear father.

I'm not afraid of Nick. He can hit me with everything he's got, but, if past experience has taught me anything, I punch harder.

I digress: I tried a new approach. A new exercise in controlling my dear husband. It worked. He stopped his attack, laid off, and went back to being the good little husband I deserve. All smiles and cuddles and 'yes Amy' and 'of course, Amy' and 'anything you want Amy.' He jumps when I tell him to, after asking 'how high, Amy?'

But that look in his eyes. That look... I can feel his hate for me when we lie together. Radiating from him in physical waves. Sinking into me like claws. Like thorny vines wrapping through my own. Enveloping us both in this barbed cage that, if truth be told, I am partially responsible for. Am I frightened? Of course not. I know that Nick knows that if he so much as raises his voice to me I'll cry wolf and the faithful hounds of the media will rally to my cause once more. He'll never recover from a second moment in the spotlight. America doesn't forgive twice.

I can destroy him. Utterly. He knows it. He'll never do anything to me.

I am perfectly safe. Safe and content.

There is, however, an exception: Margot- _fucking_ -Dunne.

I've never liked Margot (I refuse to call her 'Go.' It's absurd, and partially because I cannot trust myself to add 'away' if I ever refer to her as that), and I got the impression, from out first meeting at Nick's mother's, that she never liked either. It's that way people adopt when they're forced to deal with individuals who they despise; short, clipped sentences. False smiles. Unnecessary politeness. I could tell Margot didn't like me, and that was fine, because I didn't like her. Completing the triad of suffering that was my new husband's immediate family. Thankfully the mother died not long after.

Which left the father (wrapped snugly within his own dementia) and the sister (horribly smart, I am hesitant to admit). The father was easy to deal with. The sister...

I don't like go. I'm not sure what she's thinking. Oh she hates me, that much is evident, but for a girl born of the two most simple people I have had the misfortune to meet (and with Nick for a twin I add!) Margot is...

I don't _get_ Margot. I don't like not _getting_ people. I don't know how to deal with them, and I don't like not knowing what to do. Margot makes me think of the Festiva. Curled up on the seat. Scents of salt and factory-farm meat drifting through the dashboard from outside. Those fucking lights. Never turned off. And me.

A quarter and a dime. Nowhere to go. No idea what to do. Everything I had planned...

 _FUCK!_

I hate her. I hate her. I _hate_ her.

I like to thing of myself as calm. Composed. Collected. Above all; intelligent. But when I'm near Margot all I can think about is curling my fingers together into a ball and hurling it as hard as I can into her stupid, fat face. Keep hitting until that bitch's smug features break apart. Keep hitting until the bone underneath parts way to reveal that mind. Plunge my fingers into it and rip it apart with my bare hands.

…

Sorry. I don't like Margot. I don't like what she brings out in me.

Still, not to worry: she's almost gone. Little by little I've pushed her out of Nick's life. I gave Margot an incentive to keep to herself. With luck she'll take advantage and see herself to the door, out of Nick's life forever. A word or two here, another few there, and Nick no longer sees her as much as he used to. Soon he won't see her at all. After all; he's a father now. That's a full time occupation, especially as I'm so very busy.

It's a tough life being a local celebrity, but the people of this town, bless them, don't want to let it go. The story of the courageous housewife, abducted from her dead-beat, cheating husband, held in the boathouse of a rich, creepy stalker, who fought for her freedom, killed her abductor, came home and forgave her dead-beat, cheating husband. It's an inspiring story with a happy ending.

All I need to do is keep this Happily Ever After rolling forward.

I think I can do it. I know I can do it.

I am content.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:** Here's something I've been working on for a while. Ever since I finished reading _Gone Girl _(before the film came out) I've had an idea for an answer to the question 'yeah, but what happens now?!' This story went through several different concepts before I found one I was happy with. It's not going to suit everyone, and there will be some pretty dark shit in the coming chapters. I would say that overall this is a love story, but I'm sure everyone will, once it's finished, regard that as completely fucking insane._

 _But it's a love story. Honest._

 _Tomorrow, hopefully, will be Go's chapter. It's almost finished. Then her brother will step up, and we'll alternate between the two siblings for the majority of part one. We'll dive back into Amy's mind in part two (of five). I'm making no promises as to the speed of releases for this story. I'll also warn you that I might (probably will) re-write chapters if I'm not happy with them. I'll always let you know if something's changed. Don't worry._

 _Anyway, hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Welcome to crazy town!_


	3. Go

**GO**

I'm an orphan.

They phoned me this morning. The home. A woman who apparently couldn't summon the energy to at least _sound_ as if she gave a fuck. He died in his sleep, she said. Peacefully. At least he wasn't in pain, etc. Sympathies for your loss, etc. Like she was reading a fucking script. Just throwing words out. Another customer dead. A free room. Tick all the boxes and bleach the fucking place for the next poor shit. Ship 'em out. Ship more in. Fucking _industry_.

Strange. I always thought my father would go out in style. Breaking out of there. Escaping in an unlocked staff car. High-speed chase across the state. Ending with him ploughing through a beauty pageant screaming 'CUNTS AND WHORES' before everything explodes Bay-style. A death that will keep us talking about the old fucker for years to come. Whispering in bars about the legend that was Bill Dunne. 'He was a bastard, an unrepentant misogynistic bastard, but _what a way to go_!'

No. He died in his sleep. Probably shat the bed. His final gift to the world.

Go fucking figure.

I phoned Nick immediately. **She** picks up. Fuck it. Any other day I'd hang up. Don't trust myself to stay cool with her. Not these days. But Nick needs to know. We trade pleasantries. I wonder if her thoughts of killing me are anywhere near as graphic as mine of her. I doubt it. I heard what she did to Desi. Fucking amateur. Kill a guy after he spews his load. Why not kill him while his unloading his last package? Pleasure/pain. Have that duality shit going on. Like an artist. Like you've put some fucking thought into it.

God. My thoughts are dark lately. It's her fault. Cunt.

Said cunt eventually puts Nick on the line. After ten minutes. Asking questions I'm sure neither of us give a shit about. Probably testing my patience. A little game she's playing. One where I know I loose if I hang up in frustration. She hands the phone over to Nick just when I'm about ready to slam the fucking phone down and try again later. Only I know she's always there. Never gives him a moment to himself. Not anymore. Hanging off of him like a fucking parasite.

"Hey Go." Nick sounds tired. I try to remember the last time I saw him. What he looked like. Fat and balding and growing a beard the Blue Berry Boys would be proud of. Nothing like the Nick that moved here four years ago. I swear he's ruining himself just to spite her.

"He's dead." Lets just cut to the chase. I wanted to phrase it better than that, but after ten minutes of **her** I'm practically scratching at my own throat. I'd rather it be hers, but whatever...

"Huh." That's it. Nick's entire response. Not even a fucking word. Just a vacant grunt.

"Someone needs to arrange it." I figure there's no point clarifying. Besides; I'll be the one to do it. I know I will. Nick will suddenly have a billion different things all needing his attention. **She** will be the one to let me know, because, obviously, Nick's too busy to tell me himself.

"Go, could you...?" True to form, Nick's sitting this one out. Again.

Jesus fuck, I think, your second and last chance, Nick. We've run out of parents. "Sure."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Does he? I used to know my brother.

Fuck her. Fuck her _hard_.

"How...?" Nick rarely finishes these days. Just starts speaking. Then trails off. It's even worse in person. He looks at you as if you should know what he's thinking. Gets angry when you're wrong. I don't know what's going through his head. I used to know my brother. I could read him like a book. Now I look at him and it's a fucking stranger looking back. God damn it, Nick. We shared a womb. I used to know you.

 _Even if..._

"In his sleep. Last night," I tell him.

"Huh." Again that lack of response. I wonder what he's doing. It's Tuesday. They have yoga on Tuesdays. I know that because yoga is Quality Time to Strengthen their Marriage ( **her** emphasis). A course she signed them both up to. Headed by one of her bitches. One of her Amazing Amy's Girls Club. Fronted by Noelle Hawthorne. Her most rabid supporter. Ironic considering I know just how much she played a part in getting my brother framed for his not-pregnant wife's not-murder.

So yeah; yoga today. Sisters aren't invited. Such a shame. The sight of Nick fumbling through yoga positions would be fucking hilarious.

Can't see him Tuesday afternoons because he's Working (again, her emphasis). Nick used to work at The Bar when he wasn't at the college. Then he Rediscovered Writing. Started a Blog (yeah, the irony) about writing. All he writes is tips about narrative, characterisation, pacing, etc. Boring as hell to read.

Tuesday evenings? Yeah, fuck that... Quality Family Time. Nick, Rand, and **her.**

Long story short I see my brother once a week if I'm lucky. She's effectively cut me out of his life. Just like I said she would. Like he said she wouldn't. Because she's 'pretending to be a better person.' Yeah, fuck that. You have to understand someone first to pretend to be them. **She** wouldn't know how to be a better person if someone gave her an illustrated guidebook, like those shitty little books her parents are still pumping out by the truckload because they sell. They fucking _sell_.

And this is the worst part. I know she's a pile of shit. Nick knows she's a pile of shit. To everyone else Amy Elliot Dunne is so fucking pure and righteous she probably shits rainbows, pisses the cure for cancer, and leaks liquid euphoria when she cums. They've turned her story – a pack of lies, I add – into a fucking Hollywood film. I saw it when it came out. Acting was shit. Directing was shit. But it sold out. Won awards. Not an Oscar, thank God. But still...

People _liked_ it. People _like_ her.

Worst of all I used to love the actors they cast. Now I can't fucking watch anything they were in.

So yeah... back to Nick. Back to my asshole of a brother.

"You want to say anything?" I ask. You're the hot-shot writer, I think. You should fucking be the one to stand in front of everybody (and who the fuck is going to come all this way for the funeral? I can't think of anyone in our family who didn't hate the fucker) and say nothing but praise for the old cunt-wipe.

I realise I'm actually, genuinely, fucking glad my dad is dead. I wonder what that says about me as a person. Where do I stand on the scale? Where on one side is Mother-fucking-Teresa and on the other is the bitch my brother stuck his dick in one day, and give a ring the next. Hopefully nowhere near **her**. I would fucking throw myself off a bridge and drown in the goddamn river before I get like her.

"Yeah... I could say a few words," he says.

Thank Christ.

"But-"

Oh fuck, really, Nick? "What?" I interrupt.

"I think it would be best if you led," he says, and what little faith I still have in my bother finally, after all these years, collapses into a black hole from which there is no recovery. Strange how it's the little things that finally do it. The straw that breaks the camel's proverbial back.

"Fuck's sake, Nick," I can't keep it back any more. He just makes me so fucking _angry._ "This is our father. Can't you fucking crawl out from beneath her for one fucking moment? What you think it's going to look like at the funeral if you just stand there and say nothing? Nasty Nick in the flesh?"

I shouldn't have said that. Fucking temper...

He's silent for a long while. Long enough that I start getting worried. I don't want to loose Nick. I fucking hate him right now, but I don't want to loose him. He's my brother. He's family. He doesn't deserve to be left alone with **her**.

"Fuck you, Go," Nick snarls down the line. "Fuck you-"

So much for a peaceful resolution between us. "No, fuck _you_ , Nick!" I say. "You promise this wouldn't happen! You promised she wouldn't get between us! You fucking spineless-"

"This has _nothing_ to do with Amy."

"Really? Really, Nick? You sure she doesn't have your balls in her hands?"

"Yes."

I pause. He said it with such conviction. Yet... "She's listening, isn't she?" Of course. There were two phones in Nick's house last time I set foot there. I can picture her with the second. Listening to everything we're saying. A huge smile on her face. Bitch. I loose it: "fuck off Amy. This is none of your _fucking_ business."

"Go, you're being paranoid."

Am I, Nick? With **her?** "I told you. I told you this would never work-" God, I'm crying again. I'd never used to cry this much. I told myself I wouldn't. Not after...

I grip the phone. Air's too thick. Can't breathe properly. I can feel his hands on my neck. Tightly squeezing. _FUCKINGBITCHFUCKINGBITCHFUCKING-_

I don't remember sitting down. Yet here I am; on the floor. Crying like a bitch. God, I'm pathetic. It's her fault. It's all her fault. Fucking piece of shit. Bad news, I told Nick. She was bad news. Rich, spoilt, _blonde_... couldn't get a worse combination. But he had to marry her. Had to bring her here.

This was our corner of the world, Nick. Now I can't go out of the house without feeling **her.** Like she's infected every part of this miserable town. Can't go into a bookshop without seeing her face on the cover of that fucking book. Still got posters for that film up around town. Her face staring down at as all from the billboards like some benevolent deity. Except Amy's the old testament kind...

 _Eye for an eye, bitch._

"Go?" I realise Nick's talking to me. Did I zone out there? "Go... I'll be there. I promise." I swear I hear something beneath his voice. A sharp take of breath. Paranoid my ass. I know she's listening. "Look... it's best if we get this done quickly. Put him to rest and move on with our lives."

I'd like to argue, but I honestly want that too. These past few years, seeing the old man decay into a living cesspit of hate and misery... I'd like to say I want to remember the man he used to be, but he was a piece of shit too. To be honest I want to forget I ever had a father. So sure, Nick, lets put this on speed. Lets bury the fucker and move on with our lives.

I'll go my way. You proceed further up her cunt like the good little pussy-whipped shit you are.

"Sure, Nick. Sure."

Fast forward two days...

In films it always rains at funerals. You know what I mean. Everyone stands around a large hole. Dressed in black. Sombre music and a blue filter just to add to the morose. Priest recites a few bible verses (love how everyone's fucking Catholic at funerals). _As he walks through the valley..._

…he'll fear no evil, because he's the most evil motherfucker in that valley. God rest his soul.

It's a small coffin. Ironic, considering Amy paid for it and could probably afford any size. All the way to obesity plus. Dad wasn't. Last time I saw him alive you could have used his fingers as tooth picks. When he moved you could hear the bones clicking against each other. When he talked...

God. The bile that man said. Before I stopped altogether I spent my visitations listening to him. I learned not to speak. Just listen. Listen to him shit on everyone. Friends. Family. Mum. Us. Me. All of us. Especially me. _Fucking cunt._ Why wasn't I a boy...

Took me a while to leave the house. David had to drag me out. Away from the couch. I just sat and stared at the TV. Didn't turn it on. Just wanted to look at something that wasn't busy. Something to collect my thoughts on. Something that wasn't going to talk back. Say shit that made me angry. Made me want to hurt someone. Like **her.**

And there she is. Enveloped around Nick's arm. A blonde parasite dressed in black. She gives me that smile of hers. That looks perfectly genuine at first, but look closer and you can see it doesn't stretch to her eyes. No, those eyes are too busy watching you. Analysing everything you say and do.

I like to think she's assigns points to each slight against her. Ten points for a smirk at something she wanted you to treat seriously. Twenty if you didn't laugh at her joke. Thirty if you didn't notice she changed her hair. Forty if you forget to take the trash out. Etc, after stupid _etc_.

So she racks up the points and dishes out your punishment. Hit one hundred and your car gets keyed. Two hundred and your keys to the bar go missing. You're forced to stay closed for a day as you get new ones cut. Three hundred and health inspectors turn up on your doorstep saying someone claimed they had human toenails in their drink, and of course they've got the evidence in a sealed bag for you to see (demanding a DNA test only got odd looks. I'd like to know where she got them if they weren't hers).

Reach a thousand, that glorious high score (you go, man!), and she frames you for murder. Hers if you're lucky. Then she's too busy pretending to be dead to collect more points for Amazing Amy's Disproportionate Retribution Engine (wind her up and watch her go!).

I want to punch that smile so badly. I can feel David tighten his grip. Arm around my shoulders. I am so glad he's here. No idea what I'll do without him. Probably something violent.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she says. Impressive. Almost sounds genuine. "He was a wonderful man."

I almost laugh aloud. Dad was many things. Wonderful wasn't one of them. She would know; she met him several times. Fucked with his head. Like she does everyone. As much as I hated the shit I admit my skin crawls when I wonder what she said to him all those times they were alone. What kind vile, twisted fucking poison came out of her mouth. Still, two can play this pantomime. "Thank you." I throw a few tears out there. "He wasn't perfect" - hah! - "but he was our father." Quick look at Nick. Good to see he's paying attention: his lips sneer slightly at the 'perfect' comment.

"If you need anything, we're here for you." Complete with a hand on my arm. God; you couldn't make this any more cliché. It's like she learnt social interaction from watching daytime soap operas.

That would explain a lot, come to think of it.

I resist the temptation to flinch. Look like you actually like your sister-in-law. I won't let her win this little game. "Thank you." By now her gathering has shuffled closer. Too timid to get too close, but eager enough to lap up everything she says. I see an opening. Time to play my hand. "I hate to ask-" I really don't "-but..." Choke up a little. Bring the tears. "His house." The little blue house. Brown if you're Nick. Never fucking worked that one out. Just one more piece of weirdness to my brother, I guess. "We need to put it up for sale." I need the money. I can't keep waiting tables until I'm fifty. "You've been so much help." Make it loud. Make a scene. She can't back away.

There it is. She knows where I'm going with this. That smile disappears for half a second. Just enough that I know she's seeing the train hurtling towards her. No time to back out now, bitch. Not without making yourself seem the asshole here. Just behind her eyes I can see the fury. Good.

"I really don't want to be a burden." Fuck no. Burden away, Go. Make her suffer. "You've been a rock in our lives." A pain in the neck. "There when we've needed you." Can't get rid of you. "Such a wonderful, caring... the _best_ sister-in-law anyone could ask for." A selfish, arrogant cunt. I reach out and take her hands in mine. God it makes my skin crawl to touch her. I swear I can feel her suck the life from me. Women like Amy are what succubi are born from.

"Anything you need Go," she says. Hands squeeze mine. A little too hard. Fuck, those nails hurt.

I squeeze back. Relishing this moment. This opportunity to inflict pain on this bitch.

"I'll keep in touch," I say.

"Of course." We both know what's unsaid here. It's on. A challenger appears. Go steps into the ring. I've got my claws in their life. I'm not letting my brother go that easily. Letting go of her hand (thank God) I glance up at Nick. His face is sculpted grief. But there's something in his eyes. I have no idea what.

I'm going to get my brother back, and I'm going to find out what she's done to him.

Fuck... I realise you probably have a question. _Who the fuck is David, Go?_

Let me back-track a little here...

David has been the only thing keeping me sane these past months. Funny story, actually, the way we met. Serendipitous. Straight out of a romantic comedy.

I'm not kidding; it's that sickening. Skip the next few paragraphs if you have diabetes.

So picture this: Go, age nowhere-near-forty-I-swear, running in the park. Keeping in shape (that I lost stress-eating, stress-drinking, and stress-fuck **her** ). Listening to Spotify on my phone (that's one subscription I'll never cancel, no matter how broke I am. That and Netflix). Not paying attention to where the fuck I'm going.

Yeah. Totally ran into him. Meet-cute. Meet-painfully. Spent the next half-hour on the grass with my leg in agony from where his knee caught it. Can't complain. We hit off straight away. David's got the same kind of humour I have. Not just dry, more a desert. Spent a half-hour taking the piss out of people walking past. Making shit up about their lives. Each one more crazy than the next.

David reckoned we couldn't get any more crazy in our stories.

Then I said it: 'my brother's married to a murderer.'

I didn't mean to. I'd never thought of going to the press, or talking to anyone, really. How could I when she's such a media darling? I don't want to be the Jealous Sister-in-law. The one who's making shit up just to get her five minutes of fame. Doesn't matter if it's true. No one would believe me. No one would _want_ to. Everyone wants a piece of the Amazing Amy pie, after all.

But I told him. Right there and then. Told him everything. All the feelings I had been bottling up suddenly burst out like a broken dam. By the end, and I couldn't have been talking for more than six minutes, I was crying.

I never used to cry.

Anyone else would have probably done a runner. Last thing guys want is some emotional wreck with drama. Especially family drama. _Especially_ family drama with a body count. David stayed. He put his arm around me and stayed.

Love at first sight? More like love at the first act of genuine human kindness I had seen since god knows when. I had to hold back kissing him right there. That would be creepy. Diving too deep, too fast. He told me to tell him everything.

So I did.

Our conversation continued after my leg got better enough that I could walk. Continued to a cafe across the park. Continued through a couple of drinks. Continued around town. Continued back to my place. Continued through a few more drinks. Ended when I fucked his brains out.

Hey, before you judge, it had been a while for me. Running The Bar full-time hadn't given me much time to hit the dating scene. Then that whole shit with **her** exploded in our faces, and I was too busy saving my brother from his own fucking mistakes to really give dating, or, hell, even sex, much of a thought. To say I was about to burst was an understatement. That night I practically rode him into the bed.

He didn't mind. Probably the main reason he came back for a proper date. I gave hima chance to talk about himself that time. Expected a guy who likes his privacy (like they all do). Didn't expect a biography that night.

He runs a small business in town. Music shop. Dying industry, he says, what with Spotify and all that shit dominating. I asked him once how he could make money when people (and I'm just as guilty) download most of their songs. He told me actual foot traffic into his shop was rare; most of his money is made from mail orders from people across the country (and quite a few over-seas orders) wanting their favourite tracks on vinyl. He could run his business from his basement but he owns the property and loves having a shop. Even if it's just him most of the day.

Second date turned into a third. Third into a fourth. Three months later I suppose you can call us an item.

Then The Bar closed. Death by a thousand cuts. By Amy's sword. I couldn't keep up with the rent payments. After multiple health scares. Anonymous calls harassing any girl I hired until they quit. A rumour that I stole money from The Bar to fuel my drug habits. That's a lie. I never stole money.

Had to close down. Last day Nick came by. Surprised to see him. He didn't look so good then; fat and gaunt. With a look in his eyes like he had just given up. 'Just wanted to see her one last time,' he said. Ended with a pathetic shrug – _you know. The bar we both built up together? Wanted to see her one last time. Sorry I've not been around. Too busy fucking my sociopathic wife._

I poured him a round. On the house (what use was taking more money?). We sat and talked and laughed. Actually laughed. It was a silly joke (something about Amy, but I can't remember what I said). That was the last time I felt like Nick was still my brother. The last time I saw the man I used to know. Before he vanished underneath this... _thing_ that she's built in his place.

I got a new job surprisingly quickly, and for that I'm thankful. In this town that's a miracle. Yeah, it's at this grease-coated diner frequented by the types only looking to pass through as quickly as they can and don't want to talk about where they've been and where they're going. Yeah it pays less than the cost of my rent (again, thank you David). Yeah I get groped daily by guys thinking that I'm going to be an easy lay because I'm almost forty and I'm working in a place like this, so obviously my life must be shit and I'm going to be looking for any kind of way to escape it, even for a moment, by riding your dick.

They have a point. My life is shit. My friends have left me. They didn't tell me why but I know she's somehow to blame. The bar I sank so much into is dead – now a Starbucks. Fuck. My brother rarely talks to me, and he's the only family I have left now. I have nothing.

Nothing but David. At least he's here.

I swear David's the only thing keeping me sane these days. That and the thought of my hands around **her** throat. Squeezing tightly. Watching the fear in her eyes. Replacing all that smug, I'm-so-much-better-than-you arrogance that normally fills them. When she realises she's going to die. That I'm killing her. That she fucked with the wrong person.

God... when I think of it... it's so good I swear I almost cum. I've never hated someone so much in my life. It's a hatred that fucking consumes me. Fills me up with so much emotion I feel I'm going to burst. It's moments like that when I corner David – doesn't matter when or where – and fuck him until I stop seeing red. Until I can breath again. Moments that I swear keep him coming back for more. Like I'm some drug he's addicted to.

I can sympathise with that. I can feel the itch. Jesus, how long has it been since the last?

First thing I do when I get home from the funeral is cut a neat line on the table – my only table in this fucking flat – and take it, loudly. The sound of my own nostrils snorting this shit up is revolting but it kicks in almost immediately and I'm...

I don't want to kill her anymore. I don't give a shit. About her. About Nick. About anything really. It's just me. David's got shit to do – he doesn't know about this. I like to keep it that way. It's just me and myself and my empty head. No hate. No hate.

Just me.

Jesus fuck...

If I don't kill her someone else has to. I mean, there has to be someone else out there who feels like this, right? She's fucked over so many people. _Someone_ has got to finally bring it to that bitch. I mean properly violate the _shit_ out of her. Wreck that cunt.

I could watch that.

I could _do_ that.

Jesus fucking Christ I'm so dark these days...

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:** And here's Go. Developing Go's voice was surprisingly challenging. Partly because she doesn't have a PoV in the book and Amy never shares the same scene with her (I missed opportunity, I feel), so we only really see Go through Nick's eyes. While Amy is veritably loquacious with her inner narrative I wanted Go to be the opposite: short, sharp, punchy sentences. Contrasting Nick (when he arrives, and that might be a while as I've just started his chapter) who'll be a balance between the two. It's been fun, though, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! _

_Next up: Nick. The last PoV character in this story._


	4. Nick

**NICK**

I'm terrified.

Not for me. I'm beyond worrying about myself. Whatever happens to me, happens.

I can fight it.

...most of it, but if the worst happens...

I saw Desi Colling's body. Not in person (in mortis, or whatever). Pictures. On the Internet. From the laughable autopsy they performed. I remember his face. His eyes. So... surprised. I wonder what he was thinking at the time. Amy said he was asleep. Drugged. Perhaps he woke up. Looked up at her. Saw her crouching over him. Excited. Bouncing on the bed in the way she used to when we were dating. I used to think it was adorable. Now I wonder if it was all fake. Just a performance. A personal performance for me only. I wonder what he thought as he realised what she had done. That the woman he loved (and as fucking creepy as the little shit was, in some twisted, fucked-up way, he _loved_ her) had just murdered him.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking selfish, arrogant, murdering, psycho _bitch_.

I'm terrified. Not that I'll wake up to find her crouching over me. Bloodied box cutter in hands. No, if she does that I know I'll have won. That her grand experiment – _me –_ has failed. She's cutting loose the man she thought she could control until the end of our lives. If that happens I know what I'll be thinking: _you failed. Not so amazing now, are we?_

I'm terrified. Not for me. Not for my fate.

I'm terrified for the little boy sitting on the bright blue plastic chair in front of me. Being poked, prodded by an old guy with a white coat who smells unpleasantly like piss. His name tag, and the sign on the door, tells me he's Dr. Fredrickson. Md. Phd. And a couple of other titular abbreviations. I don't give a shit. I know what he's thinking.

I keep the smile on my face as he's talking to me. The paediatrician, not Rand. My son doesn't say much. That's why we come here. Me and Rand (Rand and myself). To this place. That and...

Listen Nick. Look friendly. Look approachable. But above all, whatever you fucking say or do, don't look like the kind of dad who beats his son. His _infant_ son. She's counting on you slipping up. Looking like that guy. Don't. Don't keep the smile. Wipe that shit off your fucking face, Nick. Smiling at the wrong moment got you into trouble before, do you not _fucking_ remember?

Learn from your mistakes.

You can do this. You're better than you were. You're better than her.

"-severe bruises on his upper right arm," and... he's still talking. His voice is so fucking irritating it's all I can do not to lean forwards and tell him to shut the fuck up right here and now. Tell him he has no fucking idea what he's talking about. Tell him it's not me like he so obviously thinks it is, it's not the fall down the stairs like I told him (as she said to say), it's my wife. My psycho wife.

Because I snapped at her this morning. One moment of weakness. I slipped up.

You're better than this, Nick. You can play this game. Fuck, you can play this better than _her._ She still doesn't know how my book got out. Oh sure, Amy knows I did it but she doesn't know _how_ , and I can tell how much that pisses her off. You'd think, writer that she is, Amy would know the concept of backing up your work. I signed up to three cloud accounts while writing that novel. Amy found two of them. The third remained undiscovered until some curious soul hacked it. I know. I led them there. Just a post on a website I found dedicated to trashing Amazing Amy: or something.

Fuck, that was a day. I couldn't keep my phone in my pocket. Just had to keep track of their posts as they read the book. Sandwiched amongst the usual threads detailing explicit rape scenarios with my wife (and before you ask, yes, I did read a lot of them, and, yes, I would). Tracking their change from curiosity, to incredulous, to jubilation as they became convinced they had hit the jackpot. Long sought proof of a wild conspiracy theory that just happened to be true. There you go, Internet, I said at the time, here's something to chew on. Shout from the rooftops, Anonymous, that my wife, dear Amazing Amy, America's darling, is a fucking murdering, psychopathic _cunt_.

And they did. The book went viral. Popping up everywhere. Not long after YouTube vids started popping up. Made by conspiracy nuts, pop culture commentators, hard-line feminists, Tumblr-esque social justice warriors and die-hard members of the manosphere. All of them wanting to discuss the possibility that Amy might have done it. Might have framed her husband for her own murder just because he had the fucking audacity to do what millions of men across the globe have done at some point in their lives: stuck his dick in a pussy that wasn't the one he married. I'll let you figure out where all those groups fell on the 'did she, or didn't she?' spectrum.

I used to think myself a fairly liberal guy. Now I know where my friends lie.

The funny thing is this whole thing is fucking ridiculous. Any other woman would have just slapped me, called me a bastard, and divorced me right there on the spot. Just my luck then, out of all the women in New York, to find the crazy one who'd rather spend a year of her life plotting my downfall, _Fatal Attraction_ style. Ruining her own life in the process.

(Lets be honest here. Where was Amy going to go with all that money she saved? What job was she going to get? She's would have been dead (technically, missing). No way was she going to waltz into a diner and ask for a job waiting tables. Not as Amy. As Nancy (or Lydia – _ha!_ ), her alias? Amy wouldn't have been able to handle it. Not as Nancy, and not Lydia, or any other persona she could create. Amy just can't hold it for that long. Not with me. Not as that cool girl I met in New York. I mean, for fuck's sake she got robbed not even a month on the run. Fucking waste of space. My talented, beautiful wife, ladies and gentlemen, is a _fucking idiot_. If she could only learn to apply just even half the effort she puts into fucking people over into something actually productive... OK, side-note finished.)

She thinks I don't know, but Amy spends an hour a day on sites discussing her book, her film, and how much bullshit they both are. She thinks she's smart, deleting her search history. But I've already mentioned how bad Amy is with modern technology. For almost three months I spent half an hour a day on a disposable phone I kept hidden in a bag I buried under a park bench. The one I told Amy I liked to sit on for 'inspiration' in my writing. I sat there every day learning how to make a harmless piece of software to record every web site she goes on in a simple text document buried deep in the system folders. I check it every moment I get when she's not in the room. I know that for the last few weeks she's been obsessively following every rumour that pops up about Desi Collings and an apparent voyeur fetish he had in life.

Point in case: you're _better than she is._ Amy's nothing. Just a fucking frightened little girl trapped in the body of a woman heading straight to that point polite company could refer as 'past her prime.' She's nothing. Just a piece of shit dressed in clothes wearing a blonde wig thinking she owns you.

A piece of shit who thinks her son nothing more than another fucking bargaining chip to be used in her games against you. As a way of _controlling_ you. Fat chance. You can't be controlled, Nick. Especially by that self-absorbed, murdering, lying _cunt._

Anyway, back to the here and now:

"What did you say happened?" he looks at me. Over his glasses. Such a fucking cliché. I want to punch him in the face. Only I'm trying to be the nice guy here.

"I was tidying Rand's room," I say. My voice sounds different these days. I don't recognise it. "I turned away for a moment. When I turned back Rand had moved from the floor, where he was with his toys. I walked out looking for him. I saw him tumble down the top of the stairs." Try to make it look convincing, Nick. A little tear in the eye. A little frustration. That last part shouldn't be difficult for you. "I caught him after a few steps, but..." Look at him. Look at your son.

He's beautiful. He is. I never thought I'd love my son. Oh, sure. I made a big deal out of it at the time, but looking back I can see I was just accepting her challenge. _You can't be a father, Nick_ , she was saying. _Look at your father, Nick. Look at what a fuck-up he is..._ was, I guess now. _It's in the genes. You'll be the same. Another fuck-up. Churning out another Nick. I'll push him out my cunt to watch you fuck him up. It'll be hilarious._

I won't be like my father. I _will_ be better. I'll raise my son the way he never raised me.

I will raise him to hate her. Hate that miserable...

"These bruises are inconsistent with damage from falling," he says. Again I wonder why it is that everyone seems to notice these things when she's not around, but as soon as Amy enters the picture everyone's IQ drops by fifty. Jesus Christ, I think. Where were you when my wife broke her ribs to punish her best friend for being fucking human? Just five minutes on Google gave me enough to see that falling down the stairs would leave different injuries than what Amy presented (hammer to the ribs, incidentally. In case you were wondering how she did it). Where we you when my wife walked into the precinct covered in blood with a cunt full of cum claiming she had been raped and beaten to near-death for over a month. Yet the only thing I saw on that perfect little body of hers in the shower that same day was the rope burns around her wrists.

Jesus fucking Christ people. I'm feeling very Cassandra over here.

"What are you implying?" I ask. He's not implying. He's outright stating it, but best to play along with it. Lets dance this game, you asshole.

"I'm not implying anything, Mr Dunne" (huh, I just thought that) "just stating what I see. They don't match the type of bruising that would occur from blunt trauma," he replies. Oh dear God! Call the police! We have a fucking Sherlock over here! Of course it doesn't match! It's not blunt trauma! "Are you certain that your son fell down a few steps?"

Why are these questions being asked of me?

WHY ISN'T ANYONE ASKING HER?

"It might have been more than a few." No! Fuck! Get a hold of yourself, Nick! Don't let this run out of your control! You've stated your story. Stick with it. Don't change it. That's what liars do.

He doesn't reply. Just stares at me. When I'm almost about to burst he turns back to his table and says "I'm going to have to make a note of this, Mr Dunne, and recommend a visitation."

"What? CPS?" I try my best to look shocked, while at the same time I'm jubilant. Oh, no doubt my darling wife has planned for this, and has something nasty prepared up her sleeve, but this is my chance to be heard. To be seen. I just have to make a message. The right one.

He looks serious. Confrontational. "Yes, Mr. Dunne. As I said; this will just be a visitation. There are no charges being made here, Mr. Dunne." I hate how he says my name like that. Like he's Agent Smith. _How can you make your phone call, Mr. Dunne, when you can't even speak?_

I nod. "I didn't do anything." One more denial. Just one more.

"I'm not suggesting you did." Liar. "I'll dress the bruising. I recommend cleaning the area every day. Please come back if there is no visible improvement within three days."

Oh, I'll be back. I'm sure of it.

* * *

I drop Rand off at day care and head back. Amy's out, and she's left a list of jobs to do around the house literally as long as my arm. I don't need to work; Amy earns enough through the royalties of her story, talk show appearances, and speaking events for causes related to her so-called 'trauma' (I can't help but feel disgusted whenever she talks about the treatment of rape victims when she's used that as her weapon of choice for most of her life) for us to live in comfort. I work because I want to, and because teaching at the college gets me away from her and everything she has done. There I can pretend I'm actually a normal guy. Married to a normal wife. With a normal life waiting for him when he gets back.

I love it.

Unfortunately there are no classes today. No excuses to go in that would work with either my colleagues or Amy. So that means catching up on the shit I've got to do around the house. I get about two hours into it when my phone rings. I answer it. "Hi," a voice I've never heard before says, "how's your life insurance?"

"Fine thanks," I answer.

"Sure, sure. How about home? You're living at one-two-nine Mansfield, right?" Whoever she is, she sounds cute. Strangely I'm reminded of Andie. I see her about campus sometimes. She gives me a wide berth. Probably a smart idea.

"No."

"Oh, sorry. Wrong address. Sorry for wasting your time."

She hangs up. I look at the phone. Private number. Probably already been chucked into a bin somewhere. Rhonda would have told whoever this girl was to do it. Like before.

One-two-nine. I smile. I could do with a drink.

The drive doesn't take long. One-two-nine is a run-down bar on the edge of town. The kind with half a functional pool table and a jukebox that hasn't been changed since the nineties. With a large guy with tats everywhere behind the bar. A peroxide blonde who probably left high school serving tables. The type of place where you'll only find people who've been going there for years. Somehow it earns enough to stay open. Large tattoo guy probably owns the place.

I walk in. Ignore the few people here just as they're ignoring me. Except one. Sitting at the back. Cheap hoodie over their head. Watching me. I walk over to the men's toilets.

If the toilets had ever been cleaned it was a long time ago. Grime competed with graffiti to claim the most wall space. Extending their battle over the doors of the cubicles, across the cracked mirrors and even parts of the fucking ceiling. One of the neon strips is dying. Of course. Flickering in a way to give anyone a fit of epilepsy.

I stand by the first urinal. Don't unzip. Wait a few moments...

Hoodie comes to stand next to me. "This is fucking ridiculous," she says.

"Just being safe," I say.

"Here?" Rhonda muttered. "Amy's in south street. School fund-raising."

And probably hating every fucking moment. I smile at the thought of my darling wife suffering a whole day of smiles and praises and parasitic adoration. She'll be insufferable tonight. Amy tends to slip when she's tired. Cracks appear through which Real Amy pokes her claws out. In moments like that I'm reminded of whom I've married. Not the beautiful, clever, funny woman at that party (trite as it sounds it really does seem like a lifetime ago), but a beautiful, horrifyingly clever monster.

Who's hurting my son.

"I'm not worried about Amy," I say. It's true. There's nothing that Amy could do to me that I'm scared of. Doesn't stop me counting the knives before I go to sleep. Making sure the only one missing is the one I slipped inside my pillow almost a year back. I don't mind feeling it when I lay my head down. It's reassuring. Doesn't let me drift off too deeply. Lets me wake up quickly. "It's her fan club that I'm avoiding."

Rhonda sighs. "True. Got a point there." She looks around. "Ever thought she might have a few fan _boys_? I mean... your wife knows how to twist guys round her finger."

I shake my head. "Kind of. Amy's manipulation of men goes no further than sexuality. Promises of sex, using sex as a weapon-"

"The rape charges."

"Exactly. Whereas with women."

"She's clumsy."

"So what's with the fanclub?" Rhonda asks. "If Amy's afraid of women why surround herself with so many of them?"

"She can't get away from them." I know I'm grinning. I can't help it. I love this irony. That my wife's desire to be loved and adored has trapped her within a cage of her own fame. Her every move analysed. Fashion choices scrutinised. She empties the mailbox in her dressing gown and bed hair and suddenly pictures are all over the Internet of straggly haired Amy and then suddenly my wife has to spend an hour every morning making herself perfect before she even sets foot downstairs. "So what's up?" Rhonda doesn't call unless it's important. We agreed that much.

"Desi had cameras," Rhonda says.

And? "I know. There were cameras everywhere around that boathouse. But the recordings don't stretch back far enough." Amy lived in that house for almost a month. "We've been over this-"

"On the inside." Rhonda looks up at me. Huge grin on her face. "So I'm sitting at my desk a few days back checking my inbox. Usual shit. Nothing special. Except this one mail. With attachment. I don't recognise the sender. It looks auto-generated. So I'm really fucking suspicious. Google tells me the file's not infected. I see it's an mkv."

"Media file."

"Well done. Yes. Download it. Start it up. Immediately I'm glad my desk faces a wall 'cause I'm looking at a white guy's ass as he ploughs into this girl on a bed. Decent image quality. Better than a lot of porn sites." How she knows that? Honestly I don't care. "Really nice room. Looks familiar but I can't place it. This goes on for a few minutes then they change positions. Her on top. Cowgirl style. Now I get a good look at his face. It finally clicks where I've seen this room before." Her eyes light up. "It's Desi fucking this girl. It's Desi's room. It's Desi's boathouse!"

Jesus fucking Christ. "He had a camera in his bedroom?"

Rhonda nods. "I send a reply. Asking who the fuck this is and if there's more. I get another email an hour later. Two more vids. Two other women. Desi both times. No date stamps. Nothing that tells me when these events happened. Nothing except his room looks different. Slightly. Different covers on the bed."

"All different girls?"

"Each time," Rhonda confirms.

"So he filmed himself fucking these women?"

"Looks like it. How did Amy describe him?"

"As a guy who preyed on distressed women," I reply. A piece of shit. Wormed his way into the lives of the vulnerable and took advantage of them. I'm not going to say I'm sad that he's dead. "You think he filmed this to jack off to later?"

"Probably."

"Did this anonymous emailer send any more?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I went back to the boathouse. Did you know Jacqueline Collings sold it? New owners haven't moved in yet. Had a look round. Everything's been packed up. Place is empty. No camera."

"Who emptied it?"

"Some private contractors brought in by Jacqueline's husband."

Huh. "She remarried?"

"Didn't you hear? Bill Wright."

I laugh. I figured as much. Someone like Bill Wright, millionaire inheritor of a small business empire, would be right up Jacqueline Collings' street. Wonder how they met? Did she take solace in the loss of her son with the first millionaire who crossed her path? Are they working on Desi mark two?

"Somewhere out there," Rhonda continues, "is a film of Desi fucking your wife."

"Jesus..." it hits me. Her excitement. "That's the jackpot."

"Fucking right it is. Her murdering Desi. On camera. How did she describe their sex that night?"

"Rape."

"To us. Yeah. To you?"

"Pitiful. Three thrusts, a limp orgasm and Desi crying, telling her how special she was to him."

Something in the way I said that causes Rhonda to raise an eyebrow at me. "If a team sees her slit his throat in his sleep like gutting a pig. All after clearly consensual sex."

"We can start poking holes in her story."

"Don't need to poke any holes, Nick. Her story doesn't have holes so much as fucking canyons," Rhonda said. Viciously, as well. She's taking this personally. "What we need is something big to get their attention. If we plant the notion in their heads that Amy might not be the precious little victim they wanted her to be I have everything they need."

She did. I had seen most of Rhonda's work. Tonnes of evidence. From the phone call from the security company to a phone number corresponding to a mobile bought several weeks before Amy's disappearance, to several eye-witness accounts of a woman matching Amy's description meeting a man who matched Desi's description at the pier. All carefully catalogued and collected by Rhonda and myself in the spare minutes we could gather between her job and mine as Amy's pussy-whipped husband.

"How likely is it that the file exists?" I'm not going to get my hopes up. I'm going to assume that Amy knew about this and erased the files before she left. If Rhonda just found it now the original team that catalogued Desi's boathouse after Amy returned must have missed it. I can see the hard drive sitting, tucked away somewhere in that place. Its contents deleted by my wife.

Except Amy isn't as smart as she likes to think she is. Especially with computers. That my novel, _Psycho Bitch_ , is bouncing around the underground type of sites (at least as underground as you can get before submerging into 'deep web' territory) is proof of that. That wasn't genius. Just sensible back-up, and it slipped past Amy like I knew it would. Like that her taste in films hasn't moved out of the fifties, Amy's still stuck in the past when it comes to technology.

Especially forensics. The biggest gun in Rhonda's arsenal is the ink dating on Amy's diary. For a series of journal entries claiming to have been written over a year they were actually recorded over a few days. Yes, Amy; using different pens doesn't cover all your tracks.

Problem is, while we've got the evidence, we don't have anything compelling enough to kickstart this whole shebang. Nothing to hold up that screams 'my wife faked her own kidnapping.' Nothing that's going to turn the media against her. Because that's what we really need; America to side against Amazing Amy. This is all worthless unless we can be heard above the screams and shouts of her adoring fanbase.

Fuck. So close. Yet so fucking far.

We need more time. Rhonda needs more time. I need more time. Trouble is, I don't know how long Rand has left. Before she does something permanent. It's all been bruises so far; arm twisting, pressure applied while the bitch stares at me right in the eyes. Knowing full well I can't stop her. So far it's all been harm I know Rand will heal through (although what's going on in his head I don't know. He's old enough to start saying his first words but Rand doesn't say much) but someday I know Amy will take it to the next level. She has to. It's the next logical step in keeping me in line. We can't keep dancing like this forever.

* * *

I'm cooking asparagus. I hate it. But Amy's watching her weight. Got to look good for the cameras. Don't know when your picture's gonna be taken. Surprise paparazzi anywhere. Always on the look for a good shot for a gossip column. Can't be seen with so much as a mildly visible stomach above her jeans. So she starves herself during the day and eats shit like this at evenings. So I made it a point to eat as much as I can. I don't mind. I live for the moments when I'm shovelling back a burger at the park while Amy stares daggers at me. It's little moments like that I enjoy. It's the repercussions I dread.

So I didn't mow the front garden. Mea culpa. My meeting with Rhonda look up more time than I thought. Leaving me with not enough left when I got back for the fucking arm's length list of jobs she set for me today while she was out being serenaded with praises by every charity worker in the fucking state. So I looked at what I had to do and made a few sacrifices. One of them was the front garden. The other was the fucking oven. It's not that bad. A little grease around the edges, but it's fine. It cooks. It's cooking her fucking food we're all eating tonight. But still Amy has to pick up on it. After she comes in. No 'hello Nick.' No 'how was your day, Nick?' It's all 'why isn't the front garden done?' 'What have you been doing today?'

"Busy," I say. Wrong answer. Busy would imply doing what you were told to do, Nick. She's seen that ain't the case. And she looks at me like I'm fucking up her precious little life.

"Busy doing what?" Amy asks. She's tired. She's not playing a perfect wife. There's a look in her eyes. I know it well. She knows I'm up to something. Knows I know she knows. Doesn't care.

My fault. Shouldn't have opened my mouth. Told her I feel sorry for her.

Amy doesn't want my sympathy. Wants me to be her perfect husband. For her perfect slice of domestic Americana. Better play my part: "I had all those jobs you left me," I reply. Staring straight back. Looking innocent. "The lawn took longer than I thought. There was a log half-buried-" (I had dug a hole earlier. Found a log from the river bank and dirtied it up, and swapped the blades on the lawnmower for ones I had dented up a while back and hidden in Go's shed just on the off chance I'd need them.) "Took me a while to dig it up. Had to get a new pair of blades for the mower. I'm sorry I didn't get the time for the front garden but-"

"Fine. Finish it off tomorrow." Amy places her bag on the kitchen counter and stares at it. For a moment I actually pity her. She looks tired. Old. She's older than me – now chugging nicely into her mid-forties – but right now she looks older than she is. Worn out.

And for a brief moment I want to wrap my arms around her.

I snap out of it, but God does it scare me sometimes how much I want to love my wife.

"I will," I say. "Don't worry about it."

Poor form, Nick. Don't ever suggest Amy is capable of negative emotions.

She gives me that look.

I hold my breath. Don't smile. Don't say anything.

"I'm going to have a bath," Amy says. Turning away. "I'll leave dinner to you."

"I'll call you when I've finished," I say.

"Thank you, Nick," she pauses to flash me a smile. Same one I see her wear on TV. So fake.

I smile back.

This is our relationship: exchanging false pleasantries. Pretending we love each other. That we're happy. That our family is a beautiful, perfect little microcosm of love.

It's not. It can't be. Amy's grand experiment is failing. I know she realises this.

Doesn't matter. Amy's not going to stop this. Amy's not going to stop playing this game. That's how Amy works. It's all about her. Her infantile fantasy for a perfect life. A perfect marriage. A perfect nuclear family. My wife is not grounded. Amy doesn't live in anything anyone could remotely describe as the real world. She dips her toes in only far enough to figure out how to work the system so everyone runs around her asking the questions she loves to hear: 'how are you, Amy?' 'What can we do for you, Amy?' 'What would you like, Amy?' Anyone who stops asking those questions gets removed from her life in the most permanent way possible.

I was the lucky one, it seems. Or unlucky. I figured out her game. I started playing it. Problem is Amy doesn't ever fucking stop playing her game. Her life is this fucking game of perfect, super, wonder, califragilisticexpialidocius perfection. Every morning when she wakes up she starts rolling the dice. Playing her game. Every. Fucking. Day.

I feel so sorry for her. I really do. Because after all these years I'm finally seeing my wife for what she is: a frightened little girl. Still clinging to her parents asking them if she's done good enough. If she's done well. Earned that gold star. A kiss on the cheek. Or whatever it was that the Elliots did for parental encouragement. Probably nothing. Fucking cunts. I would love to lay everything at Rand and Mary-Beth's feet for being the biggest, shittiest parents imaginable, but I'm sure they weren't that bad.

Especially compared to mine.

No. Amy is the architect of this prison she lives in. And the sad thing, the truly depressing fact of it all, is that my wife can't see the bars. She thinks she's running free. She's actually locked up in a box so small she can barely move. Barely act any differently from the script she prepared, rehearsed and practised again and again on a dozen or so different guys until I came along and proved I could play the part.

But I'm sick of it. I'm sick of playing. I'm sick of this game. I want to save my son from my sick in the head wife. I can't save her. There is no saving Amy. Amazing Amy is not a damsel in distress. Waiting at the top of her tower for a knight to slay the dragon. Amy _is_ the dragon. That damsel is what she was. The little girl hidden so deep inside her she doesn't even know it's there any more. Sometimes I see it. In the way she first looked at Rand. Moments after giving birth to him. Wrapped up in a medical blanket and smelling like shit and blood. Still a few smears of both from where the midwife rushed her job. She smiled. Genuinely fucking smiled. 'Look what I did.'

There are moments when I feel I can love my wife. That was one of them.

Then her parents were shown in and the dragon came out; back to the game. I watched that smiled change. Watched Amy stare at Mary-Beth while she cradled her grandchild. Looking at her face I could read her thoughts: 'look what I did, mum. How many times did you try this? Look what I did. First time, as well. What do you think?'

Because it's all about the game to the dragon. All about winning.

All about her perfect, fucking life.

There is no saving Amy. You don't save dragons.

You slay them.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:** Had this chapter sitting on my hard drive for the best part of a month. Kept writing. Editing. Taking stuff out. Adding stuff in. Still not happy with it, but I need to move on otherwise I might be working on this chapter for months, and no one (least of all me) wants that. It works. It establishes plot points, sets up Nick's character for the start of the book (hopefully picking up from a logical place where the book left him) and sows seeds for the future. It's not elegant, but fuck it - it works.  
_

 _Hope you enjoyed it, regardless! Next chapter sees us return to Go's slice of life._


	5. Go II

**GO**

It's been a shit week.

Shit month.

Shit seven years.

Lost mum (cancer). Lost dad (age, probably cancer.). Lost my brother (cunt wife). Lost my job (cunt wife again). Lost my house (gee, thanks for all that, Amy).

Got to look on the bright side, though: got a new job (waiting tables, fuck yes! My life's aspirations fucking sorted! Sarcasm!). Got a new house (leaky taps, mould, drafts and unlockable locks included). Got a boyfriend (unstoppable sex god that he is). Got a dog (don't look at me like that. I love my dog. Punch. I'm training him to bite Judy.

Judy is Amy.

That might have been too subtle.)

I walk Punch by the river every day. He's a German shepherd so he needs the fucking exercise, and I need to get away from it. From the house. From my job. From the reminder of why I'm living there. How I got there. Who put me there. I just need to get away from it all.

And yeah. I admit I try to catch a glimpse of Nick. Just a reminder that my brother's still alive. Still kicking. She hasn't murdered him yet. I know I shouldn't care. Shouldn't give a shit. He's made his bed; now he's got to lie in it. And lie he does. Frequently. I shouldn't care.

But I do. He's a fuckhead, but he's _my_ fuckhead. Not hers.

Mine.

Fuck...

Speak of the devil...

I slow the pace when I recognise her. Just my fucking luck she's waiting by the riverside not far from their place. Dressed in a ridiculous pink and grey jogging outfit that hugs her body. Part of me feels jealous at how good shape she's in. The other part hate that I'm comparing myself to that piece of shit and feeling wanted. Fuck her skinny ass. I've put some effort in these past few months. A few trips to the gym when I can afford it, long jogs along the riverbank when I can't. Some serious sex action with David hasn't hurt the weight loss either. No, I'm in good shape. I've never had the type of body that someone like Amy has, but I'm happy.

Still... that's an ass. Like a twenty-year-old hooker. If I had a dick I would fuck it 'till it bled.

Punch starts growling when we're twenty feet away.

"Easy boy..."

"Hey Go!" she waves. Smiling brightly. Like I'm her best friend. "Great day, isn't it?"

Well it was. Until I met you. "Yeah." I glance around. No Nick. "What's this about, Amy?"

We're close enough that neither of us need to raise our voices.

"What do you mean?" Said so sweetly. So innocently.

Fuck it. I'm not in the mood: "There's no one here. No joggers. No one fishing. No one making out in the fucking trees. You can stop pretending we're friends."

For one horrible moment she looks like she's going to feign ignorance. String this thing out until I loose my temper. Probably thinking about it. Toying with it. Amazing Amy's engine revving up for a go at Go.

Except...

"Fine."

Her expression changes so quickly I swear it gives me whiplash. With her arms folded she looks at me like I'm something she just realised she stepped in.

"What do you want, Go?"

"What you mean?"

"The house. All that shit. You don't care. Nick's told me you wanted to tear it down years ago."

I can't help it; I'm laughing. Punch continues to growl as I laugh my ass off.

"What?" she snaps.

"For someone my brother insists is a fucking genius you're pretty retarded sometimes," I reply. "I've only want one thing, Amy. Just one. My brother. I don't care what the fuck you do with your life. Fuck up as many people as you want. Go to town on the whole damn world, I don't care." I step forward. I hate that she's taller than me. Hate being reminded by being this close to her. No matter. I extend a hand and point right between those infuriatingly perfect tits of hers. "My brother. You let me back in. I'm not asking to be your friend, here. No sleepovers. Braiding our hair. Sharing stories about boys as we paint our nails. I just want my brother back in my life."

Amy cocks her head to one side and looks at me like I've just said the best joke she's heard. "What makes you think it isn't Nick who doesn't want to see you?"

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious. How well do you know him anyway?"

"I've known him longer than you have." I shouldn't, but I can't help it: "that's what bothers you, isn't it? That's what's always bothered you. First moment we met you've hated me." I'm shaking my head at it all. "Sad thing is I gave you a chance." She smiles. Not buying it. "I'm fucking serious. I gave you a chance. My brother's new girlfriend. A bit more stuck-up than the others but, hey, it's probably the rich parents. That New York lifestyle. But hey, I say to myself, give her a chance, Go. Maybe she'll turn out not so bad. Not like the others. Maybe she'll be a friend." I gesture at her. "Instead he finds you."

"Funny."

"Yeah. You are. You're a joke Amy."

She steps closer. Punch starts barking. "Ever thinks he just wants to get away from you?" she asks.

"Fuck you."

"Nick doesn't want you in his life any more, Margo."

"You think I'm going to believe a word you say?" She's so close now. I can smell the shit perfume she's wearing. "I've not got the time for this shit." I make to leave.

"I've worked hard for this," she says as I turn. "What have you done with your life? Waiting tables at forty, Go? Real fucking impressive."

"Least I'm getting some." Limp comeback, I know. "Nick's never going to fuck you again. Not after what you did to the last guy."

She shrugs. Seriously. Shit-eating smirk splitting that face in half. "So? You think I liked having your brother's limp dick in me?"

"Sorry, did you prefer Desi?"

For a brief moment I see that smirk flicker. A little bit of the Amy beneath all the bullshit peeks out, and she wants to play. Violently.

I'm game. I'm so fucking game it's all I can do not to push her into the water and hold her head down until she stops moving.

"Desi got what was coming to him, right?" I ask her. "He didn't want to play your game, did he?"

"This didn't have to happen." For a moment she looks genuinely saddened by it.

I dismiss that. Amy couldn't feel pity if someone gave her a guidebook.

"Oh? And what do I have to do?" I ask.

"Stay out of my life. Nick's mine. He has a wonderful family now. You're not part of it."

I resist the urge to head-butt the bitch.

Punch barks.

"He's a sweetie," Amy says, looking down at him. Looking back at me. That smile never changes. I swear I see a glint in her eye. Like she's already planned something and just wants an excuse. Like she's fucking getting off on it.

Yeah, Amy doesn't miss sex. She gets all her kicks from shit like this.

She leans in close as she walks past. "I never want to see you again," she says. Nothing else; off she walks with a smile on her face like we've just shared a bonding moment.

Leaving me standing here. Literally shivering with anger.

I wait until I'm sure she gone before I start crying.

* * *

David doesn't have a shop till so much a desk with a cash register. A shitty metal box hidden where a drawer should have been. The damn thing was a relic from the seventies and worked only one sell in five. Even if he actually wanted he couldn't have it on top for all the half-opened boxes delivered from his suppliers.

He's standing behind it when I walk into his shop. Sorting through another new box. He gets a new delivery every few days. Never from the same guy twice in a row. I'd swear he's running an illegal op or something if I hadn't seem him open and empty so many of them by now to know there's nothing but second-hand vinyl's in every single one.

Shame. I could live with Walter White as a boyfriend. Minus cancer.

My actual boyfriend hears me walking in. Looks up. Grins. "Hey."

"Hey." A little wave. God, I look like a dork.

He drops his smile. Must be how I said it. "Something up?" Records drop back into the box. I've got his full concentration.

It's sweet.

I wave it off. "Nothing." I don't want to talk about Amy. Not here. Any time I spend with David is Amy-free time. I don't want to think about her. Not with David. I don't want her getting him too.

God, I'm being stupid. I'm treating her like a Mike Myers serial killer. Waiting around any corner. To kill all the joy in my life. Stepford smile on her face. Bloodied knife in hand.

Turns out the thought's contagious: "Amy?" he asks.

Fuck's sake...

Always Amy. Always. I nod.

He walks around. Leans on the desk beside me. Gives me that look. The one that makes me feel loved. Takes my hand. His is warm. Such an odd thing to notice. Guess I've dated a lot of guys with circulation problems. I like it. "What happened?"

"Oh, we had a talk by the river," I reply.

"Pleasant?"

"Absolutely wonderful. She's a darling." I slip a little faux-English there. Brings his smile back. I go back to Midwestern Go with an attitude change: "she told me to fuck off. Leave her and Nick alone." I can feel the tears. Wipe them away with my sleeve. I hate how weak I've become. "Told me to get out of their lives. Nick. Rand. Told me I shouldn't see either of them again." I look at him. My rock. "I can't win..."

I feel David's arm wrap my shoulders. "Ignore her."

"How?" I look at him. Growing wrinkles and five o'clock shadow. Bright blue eyes beneath a rising hairline. A permanent smirk. Like he finds everything some colossal joke. I can dig that. Life is a joke. Especially mine. It's a joke that connects us.

He's so fucking gorgeous. I kiss him; I can't help it. I just have to every time I look at him.

"Be the better person." He shrugs. "Or kill her. Your choice."

I laugh. The idea's ridiculous. "What the fuck could I do to her?" Nothing. That's what.

She's played this game longer than I have.

"She's not invincible." He seems bemused by the idea.

"Feels like it. Sometimes. Feels like nothing can touch her."

"Christ's sake, Go, she's not a supervillain." Still laughing he gathers me into his arms. "Amy's just... she's been lucky, that's all. Media painted her as America's darling. Feds buried the case. Didn't want a media shit-storm, that's all. They placed good PR over actually doing their fucking job, that's all." With a squeeze he gets rid of all my problems. "If there's a supervillain here it's the FBI, that's all."

"Yeah..." I nod. "She should have done time."

"She should have." I feel his hands on my back. Stroking. "But she didn't. She's riding high on her own success. People like Amy love being in control. _Need_ to be in control. She's frightened of loosing it. Take it away and she'll collapse. I'll put money on it."

Funny hearing my own thoughts from him. Was that a trace of venom in how he said it, or did I just overlay my own onto his words?

"That's the problem, Dave; she's never _not_ in control."

"She's only human."

"Not confirmed."

That spawns a chuckle. "You're right. Amy isn't human. She's the personification of vengeance. The Greek god Nemesis herself, given human form just to fuck hapless shits like us."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"It suits you." Another kiss. "Seriously, though. No one's a celebrity forever. Especially when your call to fame is a single incident. People have disgustingly short memories. It's sad, but a story like what Amy claims, abduction and rape, won't last long. Another year or two and people'll forget about her. No one will care."

"That'll make her day. You think Amy's bad now?"

"Hey, worst case scenario we kill her and hide the body."

"Tempting. Where would you?"

"Didn't she plan to kill herself?"

"Yeah. Throw herself in the river."

"Then we'll drive out until we find the largest pile of manure and bury her beneath it."

"That won't last!"

"Doesn't matter. Imagine the headline: Amazing Amy Found in Giant Pile of Shit."

"They'll never print 'shit' as part of a headline."

"Shame." I must have the biggest grin on my face, as David then asks "what?"

"Nothing," I say. It's a lie. I don't know what compels me but I do a one-eighty on my 'nothing' stance: "It's just... you make everything seem... better."

"That's what I'm here for," he says. "Protecting you against Little Miss Vengeance."

"My knight in shining armour."

He tugs his shirt. "Left that in my car."

"Good." I reach forward and tug on that shirt. Our lips meet. "Makes you easier to undress."

"Give me five to close shop."

I can't help it: I'm grinning like a schoolgirl.

"She wasn't a god," I say as he locks the door and swings the open sign around.

"Hmm?"

"Nemesis. She was an anthropomorphic personification. A spirit. Not a god."

"Neither's Amy."

* * *

"We need to talk about your father," David says.

Well that fucking spoilt the mood.

I roll over away from him. "No we don't." I'm not looking at him. David has one of those faces. If I look at him I'll know he's right. I _do_ need to talk. I've been ignoring the topic since the funeral. Easy to do when I have the eternal source of suffering that is my sister-in-law...

I'm so good at avoiding my problems.

"Go-"

"I'm fine." I'm clearly not. "There's nothing wrong!" There is.

I know it as much as David seems to. I'm hurting. I can feel it inside me. This urge to hurt something or someone.

Like he hurt me.

Fucking _asshole._

"Go..." his touch is so fucking comforting it has no place in my life.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask.

Too harsh. I don't mean it. I don't want to take it out on David. It's not his shit.

"I'm sorry..." I say. "I didn't mean..."

"I know. I just think..." I can hear him sigh. "You haven't said anything. You should-"

That's it. I look right at him. Lying there. Glowing with the sweat we worked up together. The only thing in my life that's worth a damn. "Talk about it?" I ask him. "Address my feelings? Open up, or some shit?" I stop. I shouldn't do this. "He's dead. About time. He was-"

"Go..."

"Old. He was old. Happens to us all."

"My father died when I was twelve," he says.

I look at him. Stunned. How did I not know this? Surely he's mentioned his parents before now?

"I didn't talk to anyone. I just went on with my life," he says. "I was convinced that if I kept my head down and just kept going it'll be alright." His expression changes. He's trying to crack a smile. "I think it was the moment my mother was called in by the principle to talk about how I almost beat a kid to death that was the wake-up call to me that I wasn't OK..."

"Jesus... what did you do?"

"It was stupid. She didn't deserve it."

"Wait... you beat up a girl?"

"Not my proudest moment," he says. "Like I said: it was a wake-up call."

"What happened? I mean, who was she? What did she do?" I switch the sarcasm back on to take the edge off my next comment: "I mean I assume you don't go around beating up women for shits'n'giggles so what gives?"

He doesn't look at me as he talks. "A girl in the year above. Spoilt rotten by her parents. Thought she was better than me. Loved to rub it in my face every chance she got. You know the type..." I nod; I know that type very well. "Got this day in, day out, for two years. At the time my mother was having a bad time. She used to drink. A lot. She'd get angry. Never hit me. Just... she had a way with words. A way of getting under your skin."

Must have attended Amazing Amy's School of Bitchery. I leave that unsaid.

"I'd be treated like shit at home, made to feel so... small... then go to school and get the same shit from this girl. Eventually I just snapped. Started hitting her hard. Had to be pulled off by one of the teachers." He looks back at me. "I stopped just before that. Hearing her screaming just... screaming she was sorry... over and over... snapped me out of it. It's like I was in a trance or something... fucking scary..."

I stroke the outline of his face. "Hey..."

"Hmm?"

"If it makes you feel any better I beat up Michael Wakely in third grade."

He laughs. "Yeah... no. Just makes you more awesome."

"True." I laugh. It feels good. "Hey... you know what I could do with?"

He smiles. "Yeah..." Rolling over he opens the drawer beside the bed. After a moment of noise a bag is pulled out and dangled between us. We stare through the plastic at the white powder inside. "Damn," he says, "didn't know I was getting this low."

"You've got enough?" When he hesitates I add; "hey, I can lend a bit if you need."

"Sure. Thanks, baby."

Jumping off the bed he heads to the dresser and shakes out a line. "Here," he says as he cuts it, "take your mind off things." He beckons me over to take a hit.

I do. What can I say? My life's been shit. I need to feel good again. David helps, but this helps more. I lean back, my nose stinging like a bitch but already I can feel lighter. It's all clear.

She's just a bitch. Just a stupid, selfish, arrogant bitch...

I hear David hit up and close my eyes as we curl up together on the bed.

I'm drifting off. "Love you..." I murmur.

I don't hear his response, but I don't need to. I know what he said.

The drugs take me away from this shithole. This life. Her. David comes along for the ride. Together we escape all this fucking shit. I feel so safe here. In his arms.

She can't get me here.

Not here.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:** Been a while, hasn't it? _

_Not sure where those last few months went. I'm blaming switching jobs. Left me without much spare time for a while as I juggled priorities for a bit, and my fanfictions got the very short end of a straw._

 _Sorry for the wait._

 _I love writing Go's chapters, as I feel I've got the biggest amount of freedom here with her inner narrative. With Nick and Amy (she'll have more chapters from part two onwards) I'm always checking the book, asking if I've got their voices the same. With Go all we got were Nick's viewpoints. Amy has none. One or two mentions of how she doesn't like Go and that's it._

 _One of the biggest drives for writing this was the criminal lack of Go-Amy drama in the book. In fact they don't meet. At all. Or in the movie. Amy and Go exist in direct opposite sides of Nick. So sad, as they're two polar opposite kinds of people. My biggest worry for the rest of this story is that Nick will fade into the background with all the stuff I have planned for Amy and Go._

 _I'll try and give him enough to do. He's still important to the story, after all. Speaking of which, he's up next. We'll get to see our perfect nuclear family in action..._


End file.
